The Oracle at the Temple (1059 words)

The temple was not crowded early in the morning. I stood alone in the inner sanctum, looking at the deity, resplendent and bathed in sandalwood paste. Suddenly, a shrill  voice from inside asked, “Have you ever greased someone’s palm for my darshan?”

I shuddered in disbelief and mumbled, “Not today, but I fear I have done once, on a festival day.”

“When you meet me next Sunday, you will neither have to bribe anyone nor wait for darshan. It will be instantaneous,” said the voice.

“What does He mean by ‘instantaneous meeting ’? Could it mean the end of my life?” I wondered.

Drenched in sweat and consumed by fear, I began thinking of all the unfinished business in my life: an unwritten will, enormous loans given to trusted friends but remaining unrecovered, many unregularised benami land and property transactions, and, above all, the prospect of my grieving wife and growing children.

I could hardly walk back home. The moment my wife opened the door, she shrieked, “Are you all right? Why are you drenched in sweat and looking so frightened? Are you feeling unwell? Tell me the truth!”

“Leave it. If I tell you, you will be even more frightened. You may not believe me either,” I replied.

She was adamant, so I finally told her about the divine voice in the sanctum and my fear that some tragedy awaited me on Sunday. She burst out laughing.

“It is my fault. I should have told you earlier. You mentioned that you were expecting your promotion orders. I also prayed that our children should, as usual, do well in the final examinations beginning next week. So I requested the temple priest to perform a puja and offer Pongal and Kesari. He agreed to do it this Sunday at seven in the morning, when the temple would be nearly empty. Perhaps the priest spoke to you from the dimly lit sanctum. I certainly don’t believe that God spoke to you!”

“No, the priest was not there. I was alone there. My God, what have you done? God was already displeased that I had greased the watchman’s palm to jump the queue, and now you have dared to bribe God Himself for petty favours. I am afraid you have put me in great trouble,” I said, overwhelmed by my fears.

“Be sensible. Anyway, we are going to the temple to fulfil my vow,” she assured me.

When we reached the temple on Sunday morning, the priest was not seen in the sanctum. Apart from two people sitting at a distance in a mandapam, there was no one around.

“Let me check his house. It is right behind the sanctum,” I said.

It was a small tenement covered by asbestos sheets, consisting of a hall, a bedroom and a tiny kitchen. A boy of about twelve was standing on a stool beside the wall adjoining the sanctum. I saw a large hole behind  him in the wall.

“Where is the priest?” I asked.

“Appa! Someone has come to see you,” he called out in his squeaky voice.

The priest emerged from the kitchen.

“Everything is ready. The Pongal and Kesari are done. Please go to the sanctum. I will follow you with the prasadam,” he said. Then he instructed his son, “Mukunda, take them carefully to the shrine.”

I was pleased to see that the boy handled the large plate carefully, which I had brought. It contained plenty of fruits, betel leaves, turmeric, camphor and incense sticks.

As Mukundan rang the bell with gusto, the priest performed the puja properly and without hurry. After the arati, I placed a ₹500 note on the plate. The priest’s face broke into a grateful smile.

As we were about to leave with the prasadam, I said, “Can we speak privately for a few minutes?”

He looked at me apprehensively, and the colour drained from his face.

“What is this nonsense about a divine voice in the sanctum frightening devotees?” I asked sternly. “I am a devout man, though I am also a police officer. But I do not believe in an oracle speaking in a child's squeaky voice. I saw the stool in your hall, right beside the wall adjoining the sanctum, and I also saw the hole. I want that hole to be  sealed properly with bricks and cement. Do you understand?”

The next moment, the priest fell at my feet.

“Forgive me, sir. I am in the throes of extreme poverty. My salary is very low, and the trustee firmly refused any increase but expects that the offerings by devotees on the arati plate are adequate to supplement my income. There is hardly any crowd or special pujas except on festival days. I cannot even afford my children's school fees. We sometimes go without food, except on days of special puja like today. I promise I will never do such a thing again.”

“I forgive you this time because I trust your sincere regret and promise. But remember, I may be a strict policeman if you repeat it. 

I will talk to the trustee and suggest appealing to the public for donations to increase the corpus and also increase your salary.

On my part, I will bear the expenses of your children’s education, including the books and uniform, if any. But you must teach them good values,” I told him before pressing a thousand rupees into his hand.

My wife looked at me with pride and satisfaction.

As I turned to leave, Mukundan suddenly fell at my feet. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Uncle, my father always warned me not to indulge in such pranks, but I did not listen. I only wanted to reduce his financial burden by encouraging devotees to perform more pujas with unfailing dakshina and liberal prasadam. It was my mistake that he was not aware of  it many times. I swear I will lead an honest life from now on. Please do not punish my father,” he pleaded.

I gently patted his head.

“Good boy. Study well,” I said.

As we walked away from the temple, I could not help smiling.

The ‘divine’ voice had indeed kept its promise.

My darshan that Sunday had been instantaneous, but the oracle had not been God. It had been a hungry child, speaking through a hole in the temple wall.

The Mischievous Wink

Suresh was a handsome, well-mannered young man and a good student, known for his studious habits and quiet nature. He was in the second year of his graduation course. He was considered a decent and well-behaved chap by both his professors and fellow students.

That reputation, however, was soon to be put to an unusual test.

One day, a girl student from another discipline ,named Rhea, lodged a complaint with the Principal alleging that Suresh had winked at her while passing by.

She had initially ignored it, thinking it might have been accidental. But when she noticed that he seemed to wink at her repeatedly, she decided that enough was enough.

Suresh was summoned to the Principal’s room and questioned.

He flatly denied the accusation.

“I have never winked at her, Sir. In fact, I don’t even remember having noticed her,” he said.

The Principal, aware of Suresh’s otherwise spotless record, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He let him off with a warning, advising him to be more careful about his behaviour around the girl students.

But within three days, two more girls came forward with similar complaints.

They said that Suresh had been making passes at them by winking. They were aware of the earlier complaint and, before approaching the Principal, made absolutely sure that they had actually seen him wink at them.

Suresh was summoned again.

Once more, he denied everything.

This time, the Principal was not amused.

He suspended Suresh from college for a week.

The poor boy pleaded his innocence. He insisted that he had never winked at anybody and, if anything, was actually rather scared of girls. He went out of his way to give them a wide berth whenever they came near him.

But by then, the matter had acquired a life of its own.

The story spread throughout the college, and almost every girl student who passed Suresh began watching him closely, curious to see whether he would wink at her.

Suresh, meanwhile, became even more cautious. Whenever he saw a girl approaching, he would immediately turn his face away and hurry past, as though trying to avoid a collision.

For a while, everything seemed to have settled down after his week-long suspension.

Then came the incident that nearly ended his college career.

One afternoon, an elderly lady professor, Parvatham, nearing fifty-five, was hurrying towards the library when she suddenly stopped and glared at Suresh.

She had caught him, she claimed, winking at her.

This, in the Principal’s view, was the height of misdemeanor.

The earlier complaints could perhaps have been dismissed as youthful mischief. But winking at a senior lady professor was an entirely different matter. The Principal seriously considered dismissing him from college.

Suresh was called in yet again.

“I swear, Sir, I did not wink at her,” he protested. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I am doing this. I haven’t done anything!”

The Principal stared at him thoughtfully.

There was something that did not quite add up.

The lady professor in question was a formidable woman, both in stature and appearance. She had a permanently stern expression, a scowl that rarely left her face, and a rather pronounced slouching mouth. The Principal found himself wondering whether any eighteen-year-old boy in his right mind would even look at her, let alone wink at her.

Moreover, all of Suresh’s professors spoke highly of him.

Perhaps there was another explanation. Instead of dismissing him, the Principal decided to investigate further.

Suresh was sent to an ophthalmologist for a thorough examination.

The doctor examined his eyes carefully. His eyesight was perfectly normal. There was nothing physically wrong with his eyes.

But the doctor, who happened to have a keen interest in human behaviour, was not satisfied with the obvious answer.

He stepped out of the room for a moment and asked a young nurse to go in and administer some eye drops to Suresh.

A few minutes later, the nurse came out.

“He winked at me,” she said.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. He sent another young nurse into the room on some pretext.

She returned shortly to say,“He winked at me too.”

The doctor smiled. He had found the answer.

It was not mischief at all. Suresh was suffering from an involuntary twitch of the nerves around his eye. The twitch became more pronounced whenever he was nervous or under stress.

The first complaint, followed by the warning from the Principal, had embarrassed and frightened him. That anxiety had aggravated the nervous twitch. Every subsequent confrontation had made matters worse.

Unfortunately, what was an involuntary movement to Suresh looked exactly like a deliberate wink to everyone watching him.

With proper counselling, reassurance and a little time, Suresh gradually overcame the problem.

When the Principal was informed of the doctor’s findings, the matter was finally explained to everyone who had complained. There was considerable embarrassment all around, followed by laughter at the strange misunderstanding.

The episode should have ended there.

But it did not.

Rhea, the girl, who had made the very first complaint felt genuinely remorseful. She went out looking for Suresh and, with some hesitation, apologized to him.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I really thought you were winking at me on purpose. I didn’t know…”

Suresh smiled.

“It’s all right. I didn’t know either!”

They both laughed.

And perhaps it was that shared laugh that changed everything. Rhea who had once been offended by his supposed wink now began noticing the shy young man behind it. Suresh, who had spent months avoiding her eyes, suddenly found himself looking into them without fear.

Cupid, who had been watching the whole absurd affair from a safe distance, finally decided that the time had come to intervene.

And this time, when Suresh looked at her, there was no nervous twitch and no misunderstanding,

Instead there was simply a mischievous wink from Suresh responded by Rhea with equal fervour!

The Woman by the Highway (1339 words)

It was a cold night, with gusty winds sweeping across the highway. I had hoped to reach home by 11 p.m., but I was still five hours away. An unexpected delay meant I couldn't leave until 9:30. By then, I was hungry and exhausted, so I stopped at a roadside dhaba for dinner. The meal took another forty-five minutes, but I was determined to drive through the night, even if it meant going without sleep until morning.

The highway was almost deserted, except for the occasional truck lumbering past. A fine drizzle had begun, and from the dark clouds overhead, it seemed as though it could turn into heavy rain at any moment. I kept the car at around 70 kms an hour, cautious because the road was wet. Now and then, I passed a small hamlet where a few dim lights glowed from lonely huts to break the monotony of the drive.

I had promised my wife that I would be home for dinner. By now, she must have been anxious, wondering why I was delayed. I reached for my mobile phone only to discover that its battery had completely died.

It was a little past midnight when the car came to a halt suddenly. I was puzzled because I had filled the tank before setting out. I tried starting the engine several times, but it refused to come alive. Outside, the darkness was absolute. A couple of lorries passed without stopping, while another driver slowed down and offered me a lift. I declined, still hoping to get the car running.

I stepped out and looked around helplessly. Just then, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the landscape, and I noticed a house some distance away from the highway.

I wondered why anyone would build a house in such an isolated place, with not another dwelling in sight. Yet the faint light glowing through its windows gave me a sudden sense of relief. At least there was someone there.

I walked towards it and knocked on the door. When there was no response, I knocked again. After what seemed like an eternity, I saw a face appear behind the window.

I was surprised to find myself looking at an exceptionally beautiful woman who appeared to be in her thirties. Her long black hair fell over her glowing shoulders, and there was a faint expression of surprise in her eyes. A slight smile appeared on her lips, making her even more enchanting.

“I’m stranded. My car has broken down, and if I had a torch, I could at least open the bonnet and see what’s wrong. It’s pitch dark outside,” I explained.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t have a torch,” she replied. “And my husband isn’t here either. He could have helped you.”

I lingered for a moment, unsure what to do. From the corner of my eye, however, I noticed that she was looking at me with what seemed like curiosity, even interest.

When I finally turned towards the gate, she called after me.

“I don’t want to send you away. I was hesitant because there is no one else here with me, but it would be cruel to turn you away in such a predicament. Please come in. You seem to be a decent person. You can leave early in the morning.”

I hesitated, then accepted her invitation.

Inside, the house was warm and strangely quiet. I sat down on a large sofa while she disappeared into another room. A moment later, she returned carrying a pillow.

“You can sleep here on the sofa. I expect my husband to return only tomorrow morning, and by then you will probably have left. Please make yourself comfortable,” she said.

At close quarters, she looked even more striking. There was something dignified about her manner, and I caught the faint fragrance of lavender perfume whenever she passed near me. Yet there was nothing improper in her behaviour. Apart from a coy smile now and then, she did not attempt to encourage my attention.

After she left me alone, I found it difficult to sleep. My thoughts kept returning to her, the mysterious house, the isolated road, and the beautiful woman who had so unexpectedly offered me shelter.

I heard a door close somewhere inside the house, followed by the distinct sound of a bolt being drawn.

“A cautious lady,” I thought. I don’t know when sleep finally overtook me.

Around three in the morning, I heard the sound of a door opening. Half awake, I wondered if her husband had returned earlier than expected. I was too drowsy to get up, and  I remained on the sofa and drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

When I finally awoke, birds were chirping outside, and the pale light of dawn was filtering through the window. I sat up and noticed that a light bed sheet had been placed over me. The faint scent of lavender still lingered on it.

I stared at the sheet in confusion. She had not given it to me when I went to sleep. She must have come into the room sometime during the night, perhaps around the same time I had heard the door open. But why had she covered me without waking me?

Before I could make sense of it, I heard the sound of another door opening.

I turned around. An old woman stood there.

She was bent with age, her face lined and strangely grotesque. Yet she smiled at me as though we were old acquaintances.

“I hope you had a good sleep,” she said. “When I came in around three, I found you lying there, all crumpled up, so I covered you with the sheet.”

I stared at her. “Where is the young lady I met last night?” I asked. “She told me she was alone. Are you her mother?”

“No mother,” she replied with a strange, smug smile. “No one else came here. I am alone.”

“That cannot be,” I said. “I saw a beautiful young woman, probably in her thirties. We spoke for quite some time. I was even…”

The old woman tilted her head and asked,” What do you mean by  you were even… ?”

“I was attracted to her,” I admitted, feeling increasingly confused. “There must be some mistake.”

A strange smile spread across the old woman’s face.

“Really?” she whispered. “Were you attracted to me?”

“ No! I told you, she was a charming young woman.”

The old woman began to laugh. Then she looked directly at me.

“See now,” she said. “Is she the young lady you saw?”

Before my horrified eyes, her face began to change.

The wrinkles disappeared. Her bent frame straightened. Her grey hair darkened and lengthened, cascading over her shoulders. Within seconds, the grotesque old woman had transformed into the beautiful young lady I had met the night before.

She laughed again, but there was something eerie in the sound.

I stared at her, unable to move.

Then her beautiful face began to fade. The flesh seemed to dissolve before my eyes, revealing the pale outline of a skull beneath. Her laughter grew louder, echoing through the house like the shriek of something that did not belong to the world of the living.

That was enough. I turned and ran.

I ran through the doorway and out onto the road, screaming as I fled. Behind me came the terrible figure, howling with laughter, following me through the darkness.

And then, I woke up.

I was sitting behind the wheel of my car, still parked on the highway.

A crowd of anxious strangers had gathered around the vehicle. One of them was banging on the window, trying to wake me.

“Are you all right?” someone shouted.

I looked around in bewilderment. The morning sun was already high, and there was no house in sight anywhere.

My hands were trembling. I looked at the passenger seat.

There, lying neatly folded beside me, was a light bed sheet.

The faint fragrance of lavender filled the car.

 

 

Bringing Sunshine (1148 words)

As I entered the room, I saw a frail old man on the bed with a week's unshaven stubble, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. The bed seemed very large for his tiny frame. He was looking vacantly at the ceiling. I had walked in softly, and yet, to my surprise, he turned his eyes towards me, showing his alertness. He peered at me through his glassy eyes as if questioning my intrusion in his private space

The nurse, Omana, as seen on the name tag, warned me that his left side was paralysed and that his speech was affected. As if these were not sufficient, he had a very weak heart and impaired kidneys. He was brought from a senior home when he developed difficulty breathing. Several tubes were protruding from his body, and he was on oxygen. I could gather from the nurse that his condition was very critical and that doctors were just making him comfortable, with no scope for treatment

" I feel sorry for him, as he has no relatives or friends to visit him except occasionally the staff of the home. I think he is a rich man and can afford the best treatment if only his condition permitted. Sadly, it is not so, and I cannot say when the end will come, maybe, in a day or a week or a month,” Omana continued.

“I am very sorry to hear about his condition. He looks almost like my grandpa in his last days. Incidentally, I am Sweta, studying in Class 12 in ARM High School,” I replied

“I am happy you will be coming to the hospital as part of your extracurricular programme. While you may be going to many wards, please do make an effort to spend a few minutes at least with this patient. It pains me to see him lonely in what seem to be his last days,” she suggested.

“To be frank, I do not like visiting hospitals. It is not that I am afraid of catching infections that is spread all over there. But what repels me is the smell of chloroform mixed with pungent phenyl, the gloomy ambience with death stalking every ward, the sad and concerned faces and the groans of patients in pain. I could not refuse when my principal suggested that I do some social work in a hospital to add credit to my CV."

I made it a point to spend about ten minutes with him three or four days a week. After a couple of days, I could see a sign of recognition, with his eyes widening and a pucker breaking on his crooked lips. I always drew the chair by his side, held his right hand so I could move or caress his arm or adjust the bedsheet. He would just look at me through his distant eyes or press my hand to express his warmth.

I didn’t know what to talk to him about or what interested him. On the second day, I told him. “I am Sweta in class 12, thatha (grandpa). I visit the hospital as part of my curriculum. As you look very much like my thatha, I wish to spend a few minutes every time I come here. Every morning when I pray, I pray for you too.”

He tightened his grip on my hand, and I saw tears trickling from his eyes. I rushed to wipe them, telling him, “Do not cry, thatha. I like you and would be with you often”

He signalled with his right hand that he wanted water. As I was filling the cup, Omana entered and snatched the cup from my hand.” He cannot take fluids more than half a litre daily. Do not give without checking with me,” she admonished. I felt she was harsh, unaware that she was professional in her duty. When he saw my sad face, he pressed my hand as if to say it is okay.

These days, I went almost daily only to meet him. His head would be turned towards the door from 4 pm, when I usually visited him. I would talk to him about my friends, teachers, parents, my interest in studies and my good rank.

One day, when I spoke about my desire to do engineering and the bleak chances, he raised his eyebrows to ask why.

” My dad cannot afford the fees. I must be content to do a simple graduation. It is fine with me,” I said with a wry smile.

He became silent thereafter and closed his eyes. I felt I had made a mistake in mentioning my problem to a sick man. I lingered for a few minutes, and seeing his eyes closed, I left silently.

Three days later, I brought a bunch of flowers. As I entered his room, I greeted “Thatha, look at these beautiful flowers. I am keeping them on the table for you to see. It is my birthday today”. I saw a flicker of happiness in his eyes before they became expressionless.

Just then, Omana entered his room and whispered, “Shhhhh, he is not well. Please wait outside.” She then administered an injection and increased the speed of oxygen.

I felt like crying when she came out after a few minutes and put her hands on me. “Do not feel bad. His condition has deteriorated, and we will be shifting him to the ICU presently and putting him on life support. From what I learn, his end is very near,” she said.

When I could not control sobbing loudly, she said, “You have been a sunshine at the end of his life. I could see a change in him after you started visiting him. If only he could speak freely, he would have told you what difference you made to him. Incidentally, he asked about you and your details about a week back. I wrote the details from our records and gave them to him”

“Can I go inside and sit with him without talking for two minutes?” I asked

His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. His legs were swollen. He looked very sick. I left immediately as nurses and a stretcher on wheels came in.

The next day, when I entered the ward with all sorts of fears, Omana stopped me and said, “Your thatha, Selvadurai, is no more. He breathed his last at midnight.” As I stifled the cry breaking out, she said, “I am equally sad.”

I stopped visiting the hospital and tried to get over the grief

A fortnight later, I overheard my dad talking to someone on the phone, “Yes, Sweta is my daughter and a student of ARM school. Did you say you are the lawyers for one Selvadurai? ….Yes Sir. We will both come this evening as desired.”

Tears inexplicably swelled in my eyes.

Kindness like a boomerang always returns.

 

Believe it or not….it happened to Mukul (926 words)

This incident happened in the mid-1980s !!!

Mukul spent all his evenings in what one might consider an unusual place. It was a large open space that could hardly be called a park, though it was well lit and had plenty of flowering plants and small trees. The ground was covered with green grass, with neatly laid pathways and convenient concrete benches on which one could comfortably recline.it was in Kalighat.

Most people came there for a purpose, and very few came simply to idle away their time despite the pleasant surroundings. The architecture of the few buildings might initially suggest a temple, but they actually housed a crematorium. The municipal corporation had transformed what was once a dingy, dark and dirty place into a surprisingly beautiful one. The smell of burning bodies, though it assailed his nose, did not deter Mukul from visiting the place.

It was not that Mukul was given to melancholy or a negative mindset. The place was close to his house and offered a convenient escape from the constant wrath of his father.

It was not his fault that no one had offered him a job. His old father berated him daily and even suggested that he take up manual labour if necessary to earn a few rupees. But his kindly mother would intervene and insist that her son would work only in an office.

A graduate, Mukul had no particular skill except playing carrom. Unemployed young men like him played at the street corner in the evenings under a light whose electricity was stolen from the main box. Mukul was popular among them, but even he had to leave when he could no longer afford his share of the tea and samosas whenever his turn came.

It was past dusk one evening. There were not many people around. One group had just completed the cremation rituals and was preparing to leave. At the gate, another group was entering. There were many men and women, all in tears.

Mukul sat in a bench in a far corner, idly watching the movement of the people and the body being carried on the shoulders of a few young men.

It was then that he noticed a tall, dark figure draped in a black shawl approaching him.

Mukul sat up with a start.

The figure spoke in a soft but gruff voice.

“Do not fear. I need an instant favour from you. Please do not refuse. A life depends on it.”

Mukul was not afraid.

“Tell me,” he said.

“It is like this. There has been a goof-up by my assistants. The man whose body has just been brought in is not destined to die now. His time is much later. It was a case of mistaken identity—a big blunder by my men.”

Before he could finish, Mukul interrupted him.

“Who are you? You are talking as if you are Yama Dharma Raja! Why are you playing such pranks when people are already grieving? Please go away. I have no time for you.”

“No. Just look at me for a second,” the figure said.

Mukul looked, and froze.

The stranger was sitting astride a dark buffalo. He had a large moustache, protruding bulbous eyes and a rope in his hand.

Involuntarily, Mukul stood up and prostrated himself with folded hands.

“Young man, get up,” said Yama. “I am infusing life into that body. Please rush to the people there and tell them he is alive and must not be burned. They may not believe you. They may even beat you. But please persist. Ask them to have him examined by a doctor if necessary.”

“I will, Sir,” Mukul said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “What will you give me for this favour?”

Yama smiled.

“I know your need. You may apply to the Municipal Corporation for an assistant’s job in this crematorium. It will be done.”

And with that, he vanished.

As the relatives were getting ready to consign the body to the flames after completing the rituals, Mukul rushed towards them, shouting:

“Hold on! Do not burn him. He is not dead. He is alive!”

They were all baffled. They looked at him in disbelief, as though he had lost his mind.

A couple of young men caught hold of him and rained blows on him. But Mukul continued shouting:

“You can beat me as much as you like. But please do not burn him. Call a doctor and have him examined. I say this with reliable authority: he is not dead!”

An old man in the group shouted at the young men, “Stop it! Go and fetch a doctor nearby. I want instant action.”

He then turned to Mukul and asked softly, “You know we are all in great grief at the loss of my young son. What made you say this? Be frank.”

Mukul narrated what had happened and described the strange vision he had seen before it disappeared. He said he could not ignore it because a human life was possibly at stake.

A doctor examined the body and detected a faint heartbeat and a weak pulse.

Things happened swiftly. The young man was rushed to a hospital.

Mukul was rewarded with ₹10,000 by the grateful family. His father turned very happy, and his mother cooked a special fish delicacy for him.

And, needless to say, Mukul got the job too.

He now oversees the crematorium as an office assistant, sitting comfortably under a fan at his own table and chair—exactly as his mother had always wanted.

 

The Lesson She Learnt (863 words)

“Sarasa, the fan in the room is not running well. It is fifteen years old and hardly works anymore. It is very hot and sultry at night. I am unable to sleep,” said Meenakshi to her daughter-in-law.

“Why, it is running all right?” replied Sarasa with a touch of irritation in her voice.

“Yes, it runs, but very slowly, and no air is coming,” said the old lady

“Ok, let me see, but not this month, as we have many commitments like school fees, insurance, etc. Maybe I will get a new one next month or the one thereafter.”

“This is midsummer. The weather is very oppressive. That is why I mentioned it,” she said hesitantly.

“What can I do for that? All of us are suffering. It is impossible to stand in the kitchen even for five minutes. Keep the windows open,” Sarasa replied as she hastily went out.

She saw her 15-year-old daughter Lavanya standing outside the door with a glass of chilled Coke in her hand. She asked, “When did you come from school? How long have you been standing here? You are perspiring a lot”

“I just now came from school. Heard you talking to grandma, so came here,” Lavanya replied

“That is alright. Go to your room, switch on the AC and rest a while. I will get something for you to eat,” Sarasa said.

“Amma, I don’t want anything. But I want your permission to go on an excursion arranged in the school for three days. Mummy, please do not say no,” Lavanya pleaded.

“Which place? How many days? How much are you required to pay? “Sarasa asked

“Three days at Kodaikanal. Just Rs 3000. Tomorrow is the last day for payment. All my classmates are going, and our teachers are accompanying us. It is safe, Amma,” Lavanya said.

“It is okay. I will just mention it to your dad. You can pay the money tomorrow. You are lucky as you will escape this hot place at least for a few days. The woollen sweater you have is old. It will be cold there. We can buy a new one this evening itself ,” Sarasa said.

She expected the girl to jump in joy and hug her. Instead, Lavanya looked at her with disappointment and left without a word for her room. She switched off the AC, switched on the fan and adjusted the regulator to the minimum speed.

Perplexed at the strange behaviour of her daughter, Sarasa entered the room with a plate of sandwiches. She saw Lavanya on the bed with her face buried in the pillow. “Why have you switched off the AC? The fan is also moving at a snail’s pace. What is wrong with you? Aren’t you happy that I permitted you to go on an excursion? You behave strangely,” said Sarasa

“Amma, leave me alone. You don’t have to switch on the AC or increase the speed of the fan. I will keep the windows open and rest,” the girl said

Sarasa did not fail to notice the taunt in her voice and was certain the girl must have overheard her talking to her mother-in-law. “I know what you are trying to say. You are not behaving as young girls should do. I hate people eavesdropping on the conversations of others,” admonished Sarasa

“I did not eavesdrop. You were talking so loudly I could hear you even from the living room. Whatever it is, I hate you. I am not going for any excursion. I don’t need your money when you have so many commitments to meet,” said Lavanya with tears trickling down her cheeks.

When Sarasa looked at her daughter in disbelief, the girl continued, saying, “You cannot bear your daughter to be uncomfortable even for a few minutes and want me to have the AC and the fan at full speed. But you are so insensitive to the great discomfort Grandma is experiencing both day and night. You did not think for a minute before you offered to pay me the money I asked for the excursion and also get a new sweater. But when it came to Grandma, you were weighed down by the commitments. I never knew you could be this hard-hearted to an old person. I am ashamed of you.”

Sarasa felt overwhelmed with shame and guilt at her behaviour towards her mother-in-law. She rang the electrical store and asked them to send a new, superior-quality fan immediately, along with a mechanic to fix it.

She went to her mother-in-law and touched her feet, pleading for a pardon. The old lady was perplexed, unable to understand what brought about the change. She, however, ran her hand over her head and said, “Don’t be silly. You did not utter anything hurtful. You only pleaded for more time to change the fan. I am accustomed to living even without a fan, as I have spent many years in the village without electricity. Wipe your tears and go happily”

Sarasa came out of the room teary-eyed but chastened by the experience. She decided to fix an AC too.

The way we treat the vulnerable reveals the true measure of our compassion.

 

Don’t Look at Me That Way (958 words)

 

Don’t look at me that way. I get upset. I am perfectly normal, like any one of you, no matter what others may say about me. There have been a few accidents in the last year for which I was in no way responsible. You can ask my mom, and she will vouch for my sobriety. Though in the last two months she has become strangely quiet and looks concerned. There is a reason which I shall explain.

I have always been an introvert and not given to much talking. My mother used to admire my large, dark eyes, saying they resembled lotuses. But most others were jealous and accused me of staring or gawking at them even when I was merely looking. This naturally made me angry, and either I would shout at them or sometimes scratch them with my long nails.

It began when I was 12. But I looked bigger and slightly older than many of my classmates. Our science teacher was unusually gentle with me. He patted the girls when returning their homework books or gently touched their cheeks to express his appreciation. I felt his hands lingered a little longer on me than on others and invariably got a feeling of a cockroach running over me. I used to shrug away, and he would laugh. I feared telling my mom lest she withdraw me from the school. 

One day, as I was leaving for home after school hours, he was standing at the entrance of the staff room. He beckoned me inside, saying he had something to tell me. I found the room was empty, and I was scared to enter. He put his arms around me and dragged me close to him. I struggled to get out of his clasp, but he embraced me tighter.  Luckily, I had my pen in my hand with me and opening the cap, I stabbed him hard with the pen and its sharp nib several times on his neck and face. As he loosened his grip, I ran away as fast as my feet would carry.

 My timid mother, instead of complaining to the school authorities, stopped me from going to school at the insistence of my paternal grandmother, who was living with us. My dad worked in another town and visited once a month. All my friends stopped talking to me since then. Other schools refused to accept me.

With nothing much to do, I did most of the chores to help my mom. My grandmother disliked my mom and would always hurt her with insults and her poor background. She would carry tales to my dad when he came home with many false charges. The couple of days he spent with her would be torture for my mom, with him beating her. I developed a deep dislike for my granny ever since she stopped my studies and frequently quarreled with her, taking cudgels for my mom.

 One day I was cleaning the bathroom and found it slippery. I sprinkled soap powder and was scrubbing with a brush. I left it midway when my mother called me to fetch water from the well. As ill luck would have it, Grandma meanwhile went inside to take her bath and fell flat. She had a severe injury on the head and was in a coma for a fortnight before breathing her last. My dad accusingly pointed his finger at me for her tragic demise and never failed to mention that I did not shed any tears for her.

Two months later, my dad’s brother came for the first time after my grandma’s demise. He called me a killer and a madcap. I was naturally hurt as I was in no way directly responsible for grandma’s fall. When I resisted his accusation, he hit me. I suppressed my anger and went inside the kitchen. I had stored the cleaner liquid in a mineral water bottle as no other container was readily available. I normally use it for cleaning the cupboard and electrical parts. How can I be held responsible if my uncle drank from that bottle, mistaking it for water? He had to be rushed to the emergency room and given repeated washes before he recovered, after incurring a hefty bill that included ICU charges. He accused me of wishing to kill him too, making my dad lose his temper and shower blows on me.

Another instance comes to my mind. My dad had come for a week. My mom had gone to the temple, and I was away at the neighbour’s house. When I returned unannounced, I caught my dad hugging and cuddling our maid. I was shocked at this monstrosity and retraced my steps unnoticed. I then thumped the front door hard as if I was entering the house just then.

 A week later, the maid, who had taken the leftover rice soaked in water and buttermilk, vomited many times at her place. She was taken to the hospital by her neighbours but could not be saved. The doctors, it seemed, said it was a case of food poisoning by a lizard. I did not tell anyone that I had seen a long object in the rice; I mistook it for a cooked eggplant vegetable. My dad was saddest, and my mother wondered at his compassion for bearing the hospital expenses in full.

I have been frank and truthful to you. Tell me now whether I am insane, as others accuse me of. My mom hardly talks to me these days, and Dad rarely comes home. Do you think I need help from a shrink? I strongly believe that they were all accidents, though there was a vicarious pleasure in them.

I expect your honest reply.